Seeing Red
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: During a heated battle in Dorado, Reaper finds out something more about Soldier 76's enhancements.


Sometimes he would think of Indiana. The green pastures which spread across the horizon, enveloping the sunrise. Deep blue skies which put ocean nymphs to shame. Red barns which his grandfather had built by hand, large as churches, with white-painted windows upon the second tier. Cows grazed and their coats shone; flaxen and glistening, and the blades of wheat intertwined with the cool streaming wind. He would think of his youth there; himself as a boy of eight, playing baseball with the girls one farm over. Age twelve, being coaxed into taking a sip of whiskey by his uncle, and hacking into a haystack. Age fifteen, sitting on the porch with his father, strumming the guitar as the stars flickered and his behind the velvet night. Age eighteen, his bags in his arms, his mother's shaking arms crushing his ribs while she embraced him, reminding him to take care for the umpteenth time.

The day he left for the military, he left more than a farmhouse. He left memories of glorious landscapes, imagery which incited both hope and melancholy, colors brighter than God intended. Tranquility unknown by monks. The sight of peace.

If he returned to the farm, the old soldier thought, he would see no more colors. His visor returned his sight to him, but he could only see targets. The world, forever painted a translucent, plastic red. Red skies and red hay, red wheat and blurry stars over the mound where his parents were buried. He longed for Indiana, but war called for him much more ardently. So he stayed and fought, his tactical vision a constant reminder of what he had lost.

His old boss told him there was no such thing as luck. Just good genetics. He ran faster, struck harder, shot more precisely than many men, many military men would. But on that day, in the streets of Dorado, his genetics gave out. No longer the fastest, no longer the most agile, a blast from oncoming rockets pushed him against the ground. The pinching across the bridge of his nose disappeared. The redness vanished, and all which came with it. No targets. No blur. He could hear his visor drop to the ground and slide – but in which direction he couldn't tell.

The air smelled of napalm and smoke engulfed him. His back pressed against the wall he hid behind, drawing his knees to his chest as another blast shattered his ears. He reached out one arm to feel around the ground, sticky with blood. There was no color he could see and no body lying by his side, but a soldier could recognize blood when he felt it. And this pool was wet and hot. Poor bastard… whoever he was.

Shrieks echoed in the distance. He shut his eyes – useless anyway. The further he reached out his hand the less composed he felt. Cursing, he tried to move, but an explosion behind him glued him back to the wall. Beads of sweat rolled over his forehead. Feeling around his chest he reached into a pocket and planted his biotic field. Viscous yellow coursed through his body, providing some security. He would not die cowering and blind. Swallowing hard, he stood up and took a careful step, stumbling as the field's effects weakened.

The world was that of noise and pitch black, and he wanted out of it.

Another man who appeared in black wisps of smoke wanted to take him out of it as well.

The wraith materialized, and the air grew colder inside the room. With one spiked finger on the trigger of his shotgun, Reaper cracked his neck to the side. He lifted his arm, aiming at the base of the old soldier's head. _I should have done this in Switzerland, Morrison. But then you didn't have the courtesy to turn around and stand still._ Behind his mask a rotten, decomposing grin split his expression in two. Jack Morrison's heavy footfalls trudged across the dark room, unaware of the deadly presence behind him. A grim, malicious chuckle was muffled by a blast from the outside.

Morrison, startled by the noise, grabbed his pulse rifle and turned, his forehead a sliver away from the barrel of Reaper's weapon. He held his rifle up, his teeth gritting as he continued to sweat. "Come on out, scumbag!" He called out in a gravely voice. "I know you're in here somewhere!"

It was then that the unthinkable happened. Reaper looked at his target's face and lowered the shotgun, the grin flattening behind his mask of ivory white.

Scars marred Morrison's face; dark pink creases within an already worn and wrinkled surface. His was a face of a soldier; never knowing of backing down from a battle, and engaging in every fight until he was at the brink of death or beyond. It was one think everybody could envy Jack Morrison on. After what he had seen, what he had been through… no other man could come out of that Hell with only scars to show for it. Thinning, matted hair flung in all directions, disheveled, and his forehead shone with a mixture of sweat and grease. Yet Reaper was only fixated on the man's eyes.

They were a ghost's eyes. The same shade of blue as the Indiana rural sky, but they looked unfocused, _through_ him, and onto a battle beyond the realm of human imagination. Dull, glassy, sightless eyes. The soldier's breathing was hard and loud, overpowering the mayhem behind them. And at that moment, it was no longer the wraith stalking the man. The wraith stood, motionless, lest the man would catch it.

Morrison's brow creased; deep furrows plowed by age and stress. He lowered his arms, listened around, and cursed before he turned away. With a hand on the wall, he made his way across his safe room, cursing as he could no longer feel the healing of his biotic field.

It was at that moment that Reaper witnessed a curved red tablet, kicked into a corner, below an upturned writing desk. His gaze returned to Morrison, then the visor again.

A strip of plastic, it looked like. The sort he saw on kids' toys. He assumed Morrison used them for targeting, as some aimbot while they fought. The thought of the greatest human soldier completely relying on them to see filled Reaper's mind with ideas. He could grab it and crush it, stomp it out, take out the menace which cost him his job, his life, his body, once and for all. It would have been so easy to make him suffer. One shot in the arm to make him hurt, keep him alive long enough to hear the breaking, cracking of his enhancements. He would only kill him after he pleaded for death – begged for it! It would have been so easy… so, so fucking easy.

When was the last time he did anything the easy way?

He sighed.

Morrison felt a rush of air punch his face. With one hand he caught the object flying at him, ready to cast it away. His fingers traced the familiar grooves, the indents and creases. Blank pupils widened as he lifted the visor up to test the weight. He put it on, and the world became a mess of color again. Red weapons discarded, red bodies lying on furniture destroyed by gunfire, and a red wisp of smoke in the distance, accompanied by a post-explosion ringing.

He looked around to see who tossed him his visor, and saw nobody.

"… thanks."

He cocked his rifle and went back into the fray.


End file.
